


cinnamon and butterscotch

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Prompt Fill, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pies, and reminiscing. Toriel is more important than she knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cinnamon and butterscotch

**Author's Note:**

> written to fill a prompt on tumblr! anon requested "asgore and sans (before the arrival of frisk), making pies in their homes and thinking of toriel and how her influence/absence affects them", and. thank u anon, this is a really cool prompt and I hope I did it justice.

Butter, brown sugar, cream, vanilla, cinnamon. 

You have tried, over and over, to recreate some tiny sliver of an old joy. By all rights, it should not be a difficult thing; there are only so many ways a recipe can go without going badly, and you try them all, and variations on them all, and variations on those. You grow weary of butterscotch-cinnamon pie made by your own hands, seeking a crooked nostalgia that lingers just out of your reach with the promise of an old, old love.

You miss her, terribly. You have no right to miss her, but you do, and you wish things could have been different. You wish you had been stronger, better, more. Merciful instead of angry; comforting instead of distraught. Perhaps she would have stayed, then. Perhaps she would not have had to see you break under the weight of your grief and rage; perhaps you and she could have rebuilt your shattered family, found comfort and support in each other. 

You found comfort in your fury, for a while, but it has long subsided, leaving a hollowed space you try in vain to fill with other things.

You discard another recipe. Too much cinnamon, or too little butterscotch, or not enough love, perhaps. Toriel always joked about love being a key ingredient, and the more you experiment, the more you think it was not truly a joke at all.

The thought makes you despair in your efforts.

You do not love yourself.

How could you ever hope to recreate this measure of her affection?

 

 

Butter, brown sugar, cream, vanilla, cinnamon.

You have to beat Papyrus in a rock-paper-scissors duel to get the kitchen to yourself. That’s easy enough, because he always chooses rock, and out of three you let him win the middle throw, and he beams and offers to help you bake but no, no, you want to do this yourself the first time. It’s a surprise, you tell him. For him.

That was the most important part of the recipe, she’d informed you. Make it for someone you love. It’s always better that way.

You lay out your ingredients, and crack your knuckles, and get to work.

You like the woman behind the door a lot. Not just because she’s great with jokes and wordplay, because oh man is she ever great at those, but—you enjoy her company. Even with the door between you, even if you’ve never seen her face, you enjoy just being close to her. You like the sound of her voice, the way she laughs, the way she sneaks puns into everything like you’re not already hanging on her every word.

It’s a weird warm happy feeling. Kind of like the one you get when you’re around Papyrus.

You follow her instructions to the letter. A recipe this important can’t be screwed up with your usual shenanigans, so you work carefully, methodically, in precise measurements. The pie crust is hard—you’ve never even heard of a pastry cutter before but you make do with your hands and a little bit of resolve.

And oh, is the end result ever worth it.

Papyrus has three pieces, marveling at the texture and sweetness of it. He’s a little puzzled at the fact that it’s not a quiche texture, because only quiches are supposed to go in pie pans, but he seems perfectly happy to eat it anyway. And you’re glad, because seeing Papyrus happy makes you happier than anything else in the world.

You have one slice, and you eat it slowly, savoring your work. _It will be almost as if I am making it for you,_ she had explained, because—maybe she can’t open that door, or can’t go back if she walks through it, or something. Directional magic. 

But she gave you her recipe, and despite everything, you don’t think you’ll ever forget it.


End file.
